Trust Issues
by leyapearl
Summary: An old college acquaintance asks the brothers to investigate his sister's death, sending Frank in disguise to a hospital for the wealthy and Joe to an investment firm, but will they find out what happened to Ilse Ryckman before something happens to them? Encrypted series.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_Ding._

A subtle chime rippled through the stillness of the tastefully decorated office. There was a slight pause, and it sounded again, then a third time, its bell-like tone soothing in its regularity. A long-fingered hand reached out, caressed the corner of a photo of a dark-haired woman that faced him, then a pressed a button on the desk phone.

"Yes, Helen?"

"You wanted to know when they arrived, Mr. Peters." Helen's calm voice came through the speaker with its slight German accent, the words echoing slightly. "The car just pulled up to the door."

Carl Peters smiled to himself. "Thank you, Helen." He pressed another button, cutting the connection, then stood and walked across the room so he could see out the large picture window at the front of his office, straightening his tie as he did so.

Parked by the front door was a large, late-model luxury sedan. The driver exited the car and walked briskly to the back passenger door, standing at attention once it had been opened. It took a few moments for the passenger to exit, the figure unfurling itself from the car, legs straightening and a cell phone being tucked into an inner jacket pocket. The man appeared to be in his late forties, tall, with dark hair that glinted slightly with silver, and a goatee. His charcoal-colored suit had obviously been carefully tailored to fit his powerful frame perfectly.

Watching the man walk toward the building, Peters' hands moved to smooth down his own jacket, then back up to adjust his tie once more. As he was turning to walk back to his desk, a flash of red light caught his eye – an ambulance pulling up behind the sedan. He stopped and watched as the doors opened and a paramedic stepped out, pulling the edge of a wheeled stretcher behind him. The sedan driver's head turned, following the stretcher as it was directed toward the building. His employer kept walking, his eyes straight ahead, an unreadable expression on his face as he approached the door.

Peters strode briskly to his desk and pressed the intercom button as he slid into his chair. "Let Mr. Whitson in immediately when he gets here, Helen," the man instructed. "I don't want to keep him waiting."

"Yes, sir," she murmured before breaking the connection.

He picked up the file folder he had placed on his desk next to his computer and quickly scanned the contents.

_Celia Pierce Whitson, thirty-two, wife of Jason Whitson, CEO of Pierce Industries. Past issues with bulimia, mild form of bipolar disorder, suffers from depression._

He nodded his head as the details settled in his memory.

When the door opened, Peters closed the file, stood, and gestured to a chair in front of his desk. "Mr. Whitson, please have a seat."

"I'll stand. I don't expect this will take long." The younger man's hazel eyes were cool as they scanned and appraised the office. His expression showed no interest, and there was a note of disdain in his voice. "I'm a busy man, Mr. Peters, and I have other appointments to keep. Are the papers ready?"

"Of course, Mr. Whitson." Peters stood and tapped the folder's edge against the desktop, trying to regain a measure of control over the situation. "I have your wife's admission forms right here. They just need a signature on the last page." He held the folder out, and Whitson grabbed it, rifling through the pages. Peters cleared his throat. "Her care and well-being will be our highest priority..."

"It better be." Whitson pulled a fountain pen from a pocket inside his jacket, signed the paper, then closed the folder and flung it back on the desk. He replaced the pen in his pocket and withdrew a small, sealed envelope, flinging it on top of the folder. It slid off the edge on to the desk, stopping when it hit the computer keyboard.

"My wife's condition is very delicate," Whitson said, emphasizing each word. "I want no visitors. They only upset her. And I expect she will be kept... stable." He cleared his throat. "Is this clear?"

"Of course, sir." Peters could feel a fine layer of sweat forming on the back of his neck and hoped his discomfort wasn't noticeable.

Whitson nodded.

Peters watched as the younger man walked out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him, then sank into his seat. He reached out a shaky hand to the phone's intercom button. "Helen, please check that Mrs. Whitson is settled in her room."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?" The voice was both solicitous and cold.

"Have Dr. Nash see me once he's completed her intake evaluation."

"Of course, sir." The intercom clicked off.

Peters pulled a silk square from his pocket and wiped his brow before turning his eyes to the photo of his wife that sat on his desk. "Two more years, dear," he murmured. "Two more years, and then I can retire, and get away from all this." He let out a breath. "It can't come soon enough."


	2. Chapter 1

_Thanks to Caranath, ErinJordan, Drumboy100, max2013, __sm2003495, __julzdagger88, TaoTheCat, hlahabibty, Xenitha, __FanHB08, racey losh, __Geowyn, __and all those who read and enjoyed. _

**Chapter 1**

Joe Hardy turned to face the window in his office, straightening his back as he did so. With his hands pressed hard on his lower back, he squeezed his eyes shut and stretched his neck to one side, trying to ease the effects of standing hunched over his desk and staring at the security camera set up of yet another art gallery installation.

_I'm going to have to talk to Frank about getting a taller table to work at. Or maybe one of those height-adjustable desks_, he thought. _I'm too young for my back to feel this old._

"Joseph Hardy... Joe?"

He spun around, the voice startling him. The man standing in the door was about his age, maybe a year younger, with stylishly messy light brown hair hanging slightly over his eyes. He was shorter than Joe, about five-ten, wiry looking despite the slight paunch beginning at his waistline. He wore a slim-cut suit, the jacket unbuttoned and looking as though it probably met in the middle when it was purchased but wouldn't quite now. He might have been an athlete at one time but now spent more time at desk than on his feet. The orange light surrounding him made other details hard to discern.

Squinting, Joe cocked his head to one side. The man's voice was familiar, but with just the few words he couldn't quite place it. What he could see of his face wasn't ringing any bells either.

Turning his head away, it suddenly struck him how dark the office was. A quick glance out the window showed the sun setting between the two building across the street and another at the clock on the wall informed him it was long past five, which explained both the other-worldly glow around the visitor and the fading light. A faint memory of Chet leaning into his office and saying something about leaving the main door unlocked "in case Kara comes looking for you" flitted through his mind, and he groaned internally. He was running late. Again.

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing an apologetic note into his voice, "but we're not actually open right now. If you're looking for an appointment..."

At his words, he could see the young man's lips twist, and he stopped, another memory tweaking his brain.

_Rush week. Sophomore year of college. __Waiting for the elevator at midnight – the only time the laundry room was completely empty – with a pile of __clothes in desperate need of washing__ that ended up all over the floor when a drunken pledge came back from a frat'__s rush__ party and stumbled into him, __the guy's lips twisting into a sardonic smile __as he tried and failed miserably to help pick up scattered cloth__ing__._

And he knew.

He blinked the image away. "Tommy," he said evenly. "Chet said you'd been by." His head tilted to one side. "That was what… three weeks ago? Four?"

The twist continued into the same smile from Joe's memory. "That your office guy? Yeah, but no one's called me Tommy for years," he said, shaking his head. "Not since college."

"The guys in Alpha Kappa whatever called you Ryker." Joe nodded. "I could never figure out if they were rabid Star Trek fans or just not very original." He pushed a slight note of humor in his voice, hoping it diverted attention from the wariness of his stance. "What do you go by now?"

"Mr. Ryckman when I'm at work. Tom when I'm not."

Joe held his breath for a beat. "And are you at work now?" He made sure to keep his voice light.

"Nah. I'm off the clock at the moment. On personal time, you could say." He gave a lazy salute, then shrugged. "Frat life was fun, but it's not the real world, you know? The real world is much more… complicated." A momentary darkness crossed his face. "The complications are actually why I'm here."

Joe's eyes narrowed as he scanned the expensive clothes his former floor-mate was wearing. Frank could probably tell him who made them and how much they cost, but even he could tell by the way they were tailored at the shoulders and legs that they cost more money than either or his brother took home in a week.

"Real world complications, huh?" He strode up to the door, reaching around Tom to hit the light switch on the wall, then gestured to a chair with his other hand. "Have a seat, and you can explain what's going on."

Tom looked at the chair and blew out a breath. "It's about my sister." He ran a hand through his hair. "I… You know, this would be seriously easier if there was alcohol involved. Can I buy you a drink somewhere?"

"Let me check something first." Joe went back to the table, grabbed his phone, and swiped to open the calendar app. Nothing popped up, and he sighed with relief, but he still needed to tell Kara why he was late. He turned his back for a semblance of privacy, opened the phone function, and tapped the first few digits of her number, pressing on the photo next to her name when it appeared and smiling when she answered on the first ring.

"Hey, babe. Still at work?" There was a teasing note in her voice which meant she was also still at the office, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"So you're not home either?" His grin grew wider. "Now I don't feel so bad being late."

She sighed. "You know it. No matter how much I wish it would, crime doesn't always stop for dinner. And it's generally the reason you call from your cell rather than the landline when I should already be home." He could hear the smile in her voice. "So, I guess this means you're picking up the Chinese takeout tonight?"

"Actually, I was calling to make sure there wasn't anything scheduled this evening. I checked the calendar, but..."

"Something come up?" Her tone changed from breezy to brisk. "A case?"

Joe glanced back at Tom who was looking at his nails and trying to make it appear he wasn't listening intently. He bit his lip and took a breath. "Guy I knew in college stopped by. He wants to get a drink."

"The one Chet told you about?" Now there was curiosity as well.

"That's the one." Joe forced lightness into his tone. "I may be home a little late. That's all."

Kara let out a breath. "As long as you tell me all about it when you get there."

Joe felt a warmth in his chest. "You know it. I'll see you at home. And I'll take care of dinner."

"Your choice, but I'm putting in a plea for Chinese. It's been a long day... I'll see you later. Love you." She disconnected.

Tom cleared his throat. "You're married? That doesn't sound like the Joe Hardy I knew," he said. "Growing up happens to us all, I guess. What is she? Pre-school teacher? Librarian? If I remember correctly, you always liked to be the knight in shining armor." The last few words had a hint of a sneer in them.

The momentary flash of anger Joe felt at the tone in Tom's voice dissolved as he barked out a laugh. "Not even close," he said, still snickering. He turned back around around, a glint in his eye. "FBI. And she's my girlfriend – partner – not my wife. Not yet anyway."

The other man took a step back, his eyes widening. "Wait… FBI? What does she do?"

Joe put on a sorrowful expression. "You know, I'd love to tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Tom took another step back, the expression of shock mingling with unease that was spreading across his face warming the cockles of Joe's heart.

"What?"

"Kidding," Joe said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. "That's the CIA." He shook his head. "She's a Special Agent. Organized crime, cyber stuff, terrorism... You know. The basics."

"Yeah..." A shadow passed over Tom's face. "The basics..." He shook his head. "Now I really need that drink. Let's go. I know somewhere we can go where we won't be disturbed."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe sat sunken in the deep, upholstered leather chair in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel and wondered, not for the first time, exactly what Tom had meant by not being disturbed. In the forty or so minutes they had been there at least five well-dressed people had come over to say hello. Most of them were wearing charcoal- colored suits and with colorful ties – the one woman who had ambled over had been wearing a pantsuit of the same color with what was obviously very expensive silk scarf, instead of a tie, draped over her shoulder that – leaving Joe feeling terribly under-dressed in his chinos and rumpled-after-a-day-of-work, button-down Oxford shirt. He glanced up at the massive, dark wood grandfather clock against a wall across the room and sighed.

_I could have been home by now with my feet up eating dinner,_ he thought and took another sip of what he assumed would be a greatly overpriced Sam Adams beer.

The current visitor, an older man with white hair, crinkled brown eyes, and a bright purple tie and pocket square, clapped Tom lightly on the back and said his farewells. When he finally waved his goodbye, Tom took a long drink of his Old Fashioned and set the glass back down on the table, his fingers resting on the rim.

Joe cleared his throat. "If this is not getting interrupted, I'd hate to see what getting interrupted looks like." He took another sip of his beer. "Look, I don't want to be rude. It's been nice seeing you, and I appreciate the drink," – he tipped the glass in salute – "but I've had a long day, and..."

Tom's eyes didn't move from the liquid sloshing gently in his glass. "I think my sister was murdered." The words came out in a whisper.

"What?" Joe sat up straighter, beer sloshing slightly over the rim of his glass as he lowered it to the table.

"My sister died a few months ago." The other man let out a long breath. "Murder might be too strong a word, but..." The words trailed off as he turned his head and looked off into the distance. "How much do you know about my family, Joe?"

"Other than that you come from money?" He indicated their surroundings with a wave of his hand. "Pretty much nothing. Fill me in."

A half-smile appeared on Tom's face. "Come from money. Yes. We come from money..." He snorted, then took another gulp of his drink. "I'll spare you the family history and stick to the basics. We're old Dutch New Yorkers. On both sides. My parents couldn't stand one another but didn't get divorced because of the finances. My mom was diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer right after I graduated from NYU and died about six weeks later. My dad crowed about it right up until the day he dropped dead from a heart attack less than three months after that."

Joe's mouth dropped open. "Man, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Tom shrugged. "I never really saw too much of either of them. Ilse and I had nannies growing up and were sent to boarding schools when we got older. The most time I spent with either of them was when I was in college. They were both living in New York. Separately, of course. They each had their own penthouse apartment on opposite ends of Central Park."

"That's… nice?" Joe's mouth was dry. He didn't know what to say, so he took another sip from his glass. "Ilse... That's your sister?"

"Yeah. She was about six years older than me. I'm actually surprised my folks had more than one child. Ilse and I used to joke about the improbability of it. The only thing we could think was my father was desperate for a son to carry on the family name." A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "We weren't close. Any of us." He ran his hand across his forehead. "With Ilse and me it was the age difference… And spending time at school in different countries... Anyway, she got married my sophomore year at NYU. The oldest son of one my dad's business partners. I remember being bored silly at the wedding. My folks sat at separate tables. Ilse smiled, but I was never sure if Brad was her choice or my dad's."

"Keeping it all in the family?" Joe asked.

That garnered another bitter laugh. "Pretty much." Tom put a hand on the table and drummed his fingers a few times. "My sister had… 'Emotional issues' is probably what they would call it now. Dad called it a case of the crazies. She was in the hospital a few times when I was a kid. And again when I was in high school." At the question in Joe's eyes, he shook his head. "I don't know what for. Just that it happened." He took another drink from his glass, setting it carefully back down on the table as he swallowed. "Anyway, because of her issues and my age, Dad had our inheritance wrapped up in a trust, so we wouldn't see any part of the business until we hit thirty."

"Which would have been this year for your sister?"

Tom nodded. "January. She died in April. Her will left everything of hers to her husband."

"Brad?" Joe waited for confirmation, pausing for a long moment after he got it. "How did she die?"

His answer was a headshake. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"She'd been hospitalized again. There's this clinic upstate. It's called Hargreaves Manor." Tom rolled his eyes. "I don't know why they don't just call it the Hargreaves Hospital. Everyone knows it's a loony bin." He let out a breath. "She went in after Christmas for a 'rest cure'" – he made air quotes around the words – "and by May she was gone."

"Man, I'm really sorry." Joe picked up his drink, swirling the liquid around the sides of the glass. "And you don't know what happened?"

Tom raked a hand through his hair. "No. My brother-in-law hasn't been real forthcoming with the details. And it's not the kind of thing we talk about at the office."

"So it could have been natural causes? Or suicide?" He put his glass down, keeping his eyes on the other man's face. "Sorry, but I have to ask."

"I don't… I don't know." Tom stilled, closing his eyes and pressing his lips together until there was a white line around them. For a long minute, he sat, nostrils flaring as he breathed in and out. Finally, he opened his eyes. "My gut tells me something happened to her there. I don't know what, but I want to find out. I want _you _to find out."

"Me?" He picked the glass back up and held it to his lips.

"You and your brother." Tom leaned forward with both arms on the table, eyes intent. "I've heard you're good. Especially at this sort of thing. I don't care what it costs. I just need to know."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It was after ten o'clock when the apartment door opened, the light from the hallway shining around a figure with slumped shoulders.

"That was much too long of a day," Kara said as she shuffled into the living room. "Remind me again why I do this job?"

Joe moved forward, took her coat, and led her toward the sofa. "Because you're good at it? And there's no one else you trust to do it as well as you do." He kissed her gently on the forehead and lips, then folded her down on the cushion. "Sit. I'm guessing you haven't had dinner yet?"

She shook her head, pulled a throw off the back of the sofa, and curled up under it. "I just wanted to get home."

"Good thing I remembered then." Joe went into the kitchen for a moment and came out holding a tray with a bowl and a plate. "Hot and sour soup, beef lo mein, and an egg roll." He tucked the tray over her lap. "I've been keeping it warm in the oven."

Kara took a large bite of egg roll. "Oh, that's just what I needed. What did you get?" she asked, her mouth full.

"Spare ribs and a ramen bowl. I ate when I got home. Otherwise the noodles soak up all the broth."

She cocked her head to the side and swallowed. "Comfort food?"

He shrugged. "It seemed like a good night for it. Eat."

They sat for a while before Kara put down her chopsticks. "So, are you going to tell me about it?"

Joe blew out a breath. "I'm still processing. I want your opinion, but..." He gestured at the food. "I think you need some more calories first."

She smiled at him and took another delicate bite from her chopsticks, then put them down and took one of his hands in both of hers. "I'm good right now. So, what did he want?"

"He thinks his sister was murdered. He wants us to investigate."

"Murdered?" Kara sat up straight, the tray in her lap almost hitting the floor. Joe extricated his hand, took the tray from her and placed it on the table, then gave her back his hand.

"He's not sure. That's what he wants us to find out." He started rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "He didn't say it in so many words, but I think there's money involved. An inheritance of some sort. His family is old New York. The kind with more money than sense."

"What does Frank think?"

Joe shrugged. "I haven't talked to him yet. I came right home. I wanted to talk to you first."

Kara raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, that's a first." Her tone was slightly teasing. "I'm touched."

He knocked his shoulder against hers. "Murder is more in your line of work than ours. We tend to do missing people, screwy finances, and more art galleries than I knew ever existed in the world, never mind New York." He sighed and placed their joined hands against his leg. "So. Many. Art. Galleries..."

"You do seem to have that market cornered," Kara said, moving their hands up to her mouth and brushing her lips against his fingers before yawning heavily. "Tell me about the meeting."

When he finished, her eyes were half-closed.

"Are you still awake in there?"

She nodded. "Thinking."

"So, what's your professional opinion?"

She tilted her head to one side, waiting a moment before speaking. "I think… I think he's left some information out. It sounds like he's not telling you everything. And you're right that it's probably about money. And you need to talk to Frank. And if you take this case, you need to be careful."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "That's a lot of ands. Anything else?"

"No." She shook her head, then yawned, pulling her hand free from his and stretching both arms over her head. "I'm too tired for more ands. I need to go to bed before I fall asleep right here." She looked up at him through her eyelashes and put her arms out. "Carry me?"

He grinned. "As my lady commands." He scooped her up in his arms, kissed her on the forehead, and swept her out of the room.


	3. Chapter 2

Thanks to max2013, hlahabibty, Candylou, MargaretA66, julzdagger88, FanHB08, Xenitha, TaoTheCat, TheSoundofHoofbeats, PromisedRainbow, K1975, Magriethaj, and all those who read and enjoyed.

I am not even going to try to apologize for the time delay in getting this posted except to say that writing has been difficult with everything going on in the world. Be safe, everyone.

**Chapter 2**

"What is it you're not telling us, Mr. Ryckman?" Frank sat behind his desk, his hands folded on the closed case of his laptop, his voice quiet, his eyes glittering darkly in a way that someone who didn't know him well might interpret as interest. Someone who _did_ know him well would recognize it as impatience tinged with anger, and at this exact moment, Joe felt fortunate Tom didn't know his brother well.

They had spent the last hour or so sitting in Frank's office, Tom retelling everything he had said to Joe at the bar the night before. Joe hadn't been sure how Frank was going to react, but with this one question, he knew his brother had the same doubts Kara had voiced. He let out a small sigh at this additional piece of evidence of how much alike they were and once again felt grateful that, given their similarities, their friendship had never blossomed into anything more.

_I don't know what my life would be like without Kara, and Anna has been so good for him..._

"What? Nothing!"

Tom's words wrenched Joe back to the moment at hand. The man's voice held a note of indignation that Joe almost – but not quite – believed.

"I've told you everything I know. My sister was _murdered_…" The man's voice trailed off, as if he were trying to keep it from breaking.

Frank raised an eyebrow, unfolded his hands, and opened his laptop, moving his gaze down to the screen as he spoke. "Thank you, Mr. Ryckman," he said, not looking up. "I think our meeting is over. Have a nice day." The coldness in his voice both belied the words and lowered the temperature of the room by several degrees.

Joe had to clench his teeth and swallow hard to keep the laugh bubbling up in his chest from escaping.

_You're good, 'bro_, he thought. _I've got to give __you__ that.__I knew something was off by the time I got home, but y__ou saw right through him._

Tom jumped to his feet and turned toward him, his face turning several shades of red. "Joe, I thought you said…"

"I said my brother agreed to talk to you," he said, trying to dampen down the smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. "And he's talked to you, so…" He shrugged. "What can I say?" He stood and opened Frank's door, gesturing to the outer office with one hand. "Do you need me to see you out, or can you find the way yourself?"

The other man's shoulders drooped as if a tower of cards he had been working on for hours had been blown over by an unexpected gust of wind. He closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. "I think my brother-in-law is trying to take over our company," he said. The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, a completely different one from the one he had used while attempting to garner their sympathy. "My sister died without a will, and it's complicating… things."

Frank nodded once, then closed the laptop and picked up his phone. "Chet, can you bring us some coffee? Thanks." He put the handset down and looked back at Tom. "Your sister was married. If she died without a will, doesn't her entire estate just pass to her husband?"

Tom tilted his head to one side and let out a breath. "The trust my dad left is… Complex is probably the best descriptor. If either one of us dies… died... before the other, our share goes to our children. Ilse and Brad didn't have any children, or at least they hadn't gotten around to it yet. When they got married two years ago, Brad wanted to start a family right away. He wanted a son to carry on the family name, but Ilse wasn't sure she wanted kids. She was afraid of them inheriting her… her issues." He shook his head. "The trust doesn't specify the inheritance is marital property. It actually doesn't say anything about anyone else inheriting if either of us died without issue, but Brad is convinced he's entitled to her shares. If they had gotten divorced, her shares wouldn't have been included in the marital property, but they were still married when she died. If a judge rules in his favor, he gets another twenty-four percent of the company. If not…" His voice trailed off.

"If not, it goes to you." Frank wasn't asking.

Joe wasn't surprised to see Tom's nod of agreement. "In the absence of children, yes."

"Excuse me."

The voice coming from the door made Joe jump, and he moved out of the way so Chet could enter with a tray holding three mugs, a small pitcher, and some sugar packets. He handed one mug to Frank, gave another to Joe, and put the tray down in front of Tom with everything else. As he passed by Joe on his way out, he mouthed 'cocoa' and gave him a private thumbs up. Joe grinned back in return and saluted with the mug.

Tom picked up the pitcher and poured some cream into his mug, then ripped open two packets of sugar and added them as well. "So, you see why I need to know."

"You said 'if a judge rules'. So, this is in court?" Joe took a sip of his drink. "And _still _married. Was Ilse trying to get a divorce? Never mind that, how can you work with this guy every day if you think he had your sister killed?"

"She talked about it a couple of times, but she never did anything about out, and it's business." Tom waved a hand. He grabbed the mug from the tray. "Having a lawyer look at everything is standard operating procedure. I would do the same thing in his position. It's nothing personal."

Frank raised an eyebrow at him again. "So, possibly having your sister killed is just business?" His tone was dry and disbelieving.

Tom spluttered and choked, the coffee in his mug sloshing over the side onto the tray sitting in front of him. "No," he croaked. "Of course not."

"So, you don't think he had your sister killed?" Frank's face was a carefully controlled blank.

They sat for a long moment staring at each other. Finally, Tom let out a breath and looked away.

"I don't know. That's why I need someone – you – to look into it for me." He took a sip of the coffee, then put the mug back down. "If he did, Ilse deserves justice. If he didn't…" His voice trailed off for a moment, then he turned to look at Joe. "If he didn't I will fight to keep my family's share of the business. It's not his for the taking."

Frank nodded. "Tell us about the company…" He shifted some papers around on his desk. "Aartsengel Financial. Started by your… grandfather? And a man named Jonathan Carmichael..."

"Brad's grandfather." Tom lifted the mug again and brought it to his lips. "Opa came over from the Netherlands when he was a boy. There was a family connection to the Carmichaels somewhere several generations back. Brad's grandfather had money and connections, and Opa had financial genius. Together, they opened an investing firm."

Joe held up a hand. "And Aartsengel means… what?"

"Archangel." Tom shrugged. "It's a play on words. Michael was supposed to be the archangel, or the chief of angels. He was the protector. It's supposed to make people feel their money is safe with us."

_Supposed to_, Joe thought. _Interesting choice of words._

He tilted his head to one side. "And is it?"

"Is what?"

"Is the money people invest in your firm safe?" Joe took a swig of his hot chocolate as he waited for an answer.

"Yes." Tom's tone was puzzled. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"No reason," Joe said, shrugging his shoulders. "Just curious."

He took another sip of his hot chocolate. _Not that you would come right out and say it if it wasn't,_ he thought as he rested the mug on his knee. _I'll give Biff a call later and see what he knows._

Tom continued talking. "Our grandfathers brought our fathers into the company, and they brought us in. Brad's father retired not long after he and Ilse got married, and I took over Dad's duties after he died. The company has doubled in size since then." He ran a hand through his hair. "If he gets her shares, I'll be ruined. Most of our family's assets are tied up in the shares. He'll push me out on the street." A sardonic smile made his lips quirk to one side. "Obviously, I would rather that not happen."

Frank nodded. "And you think this…" He scanned a piece of paper sitting on his desk. "Hargreaves Manor holds some of the information you need?"

"Yes." Tom shrugged. "The only reason I can think why they won't give me any information about my sister's death is that Brad told them not to. I'm her only living relative. I don't know where else to look."

"Okay." Frank let out a breath. "We'll need a referral so we can get in."

Joe's head snapped up. "Get in?"

The words were echoed a second later by the other man. "What do you mean get in?"

"From the sounds of it, we'll need to investigate from the inside." Frank cleared his throat. "Give us a couple of days to get things arranged, and then we'll get you the information you'll need to contact them."

"Contact them?" The confusion in the words mirrored the look on Tom's face.

Joe sighed. "So you can let them know you have a rich friend who needs their 'help'." He put air quotes around the last word as he shook his head, pretty sure he knew what his brother had in mind. "It's one of our _options_ for investigating." He made sure he was looking at his brother when he emphasized the word 'options.'

"Oh. Okay." Tom stood. "So I should call you back… when?"

"We'll call you when we're ready," Joe said, standing.

Tom took the hint. "All right. I look forward to hearing what you come up with." He put the mostly full mug back on the tray, shook both their hands, and left the office, shaking his head slightly as he walked away.

Joe took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he shut the door behind their new client, feeling tension building in his shoulders. "You're planning on going in there as a patient, aren't you?"

When he turned around, his brother already had his laptop open, the keys clicking under his fingers. "One of us should. Do you want it to be you?" he asked, not looking up from the screen.

Joe stood for a long minute before answering. "You know I can't," he said, his voice low. "I don't have your acting skills, but don't you think we should look at another way to do this?"

Frank's fingers continued moving across the keyboard, his eyes still focused ahead of him. "Like what?"

"Will you stop that and look at me?" The anger he heard in his own voice startled him.

His brother closed the laptop cover and looked up, one eyebrow raising slightly. "What's going on here, little brother?"

"Don't." The word snapped from Joe's lips. "We're supposed to talk about this. Decide _together_ if we're taking cases. Decide _together _how cases like this are handled." His hands curled into fists. "Every time you go in somewhere, you get hurt. _Every single time_. Are you some kind of danger junkie or something? Do you need the adrenaline rush that badly? I can't…"

"Whoa, there." Frank stood, his hands palms out. "I thought you brought your friend in because you wanted us to take his case." He straightened. "Was I wrong?"

"He's not my friend." Joe relaxed his hands and worked on steadying his breathing. "No, but…"

"But, what?" Frank sounded truly puzzled. "This is no different than how we handle any other case like this."

A snort escaped from Joe's mouth. "We've had other cases like this?" He started counting off on his fingers. "Art galleries where we do security. Protection details. Insurance fraud."

"You're proving my point," Frank said, the confusion still present in his tone. "We've gone undercover in all these types of cases. How is this different?"

Joe fought the urge to roll his eyes and took a deep breath instead. When he thought he could speak rather than shout, he said, "We've never taken a case where someone has been murdered."

Frank tipped his head to one side. "Joe, we've had cases where people have died..."

"Not that we knew at the outset!"

"I see," Frank said, sitting back down. "So, it looks like we have two choices here." He held up a finger. "Not take the case."

"I didn't say…"

Frank held up a second finger. "Or find a way to get in other than as a patient."

Joe closed his mouth.

"While I think having someone on the inside as a patient would give us a better handle on how Ilse Carmichael was treated, seeing if one of us can get hired as an orderly or an office worker would give us an opportunity to see the patients ourselves or examine their records." Frank leaned back in his chair. "Better?"

"Yeah." Joe relaxed his shoulders. "I just…" He stopped, his lips twisting.

"You just what?" Frank prompted.

"I don't know." He ran a hand though his hair. "If this place is murdering its patients for their money…" His left foot started an irregular beat on the carpeted floor. "Look, I don't want to see you in another hospital bed."

Frank's lips quirked into a half-smile.

"What?" Joe tried without success to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Care to share the joke?"

Something that sounded very much like a snort came from his brother's throat. "I'm sorry," Frank said. "I am taking you seriously, but, Joe… It's a clinic. A hospital. If I end up having to go undercover as a patient, I will most likely be in a hospital bed. I mean, I don't imagine they let the patients sleep in luxury accommodations." He put a hand over his mouth, doing his best to hide the fact that his smile was turning into a grin.

Joe stared at him for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Right. Whatever. But we try other means of access first, right?"

Frank lowered his hand, his expression now serious, but his eyes twinkling. "Of course, little brother. I wouldn't consider anything else."

Joe rolled his eyes again. "I'm going back to my office to call Biff. I'll let you know what he says about Archangel Financial."

"Aartsengel," Frank corrected.

Joe waved his hand in the air as he walked through the door. "Whatever. Just use that giant brain of yours to think of some other way to get us in there."

The door closed behind him.


	4. Chapter 3

Thanks to Candylou, MargaretA66, max2013, sm2003495, Jilsen, Xenitha, hlahabibty, TaotheCat, Paulina Ann, julzdagger88, JensenIsIt, Mickey2309Mouse, and all those who read and enjoyed this or any of my stories. This one is definitely moving slower, but it is moving.

**Chapter 3**

Joe rubbed his eyes as he hung up the phone, sighing as he did so. He'd managed to get in touch with Biff, but his friend was in Singapore and wouldn't be back for a week.

"And you'll need to give me a couple of days after that to get used to the twelve hour time difference again," Biff said before he disconnected. "You haven't experienced jet lag until you've been on three flights home from the Far East and then have to go to work the next day."

He wished Biff luck with whatever his financial business was – "Don't bother trying to explain it," he had said, "I won't understand it." – and told his friend to call when he was free for lunch.

The next few hours were spent on basic agency business. He worked on a report for one client, emailed some photos to another, then spent some more time on the schematics of the art gallery he had been working on when Tom had interrupted him. When his stomach started rumbling, he rolled up the plans, popped them in a cardboard tube, and plopped them on his desk. He debated just heading out for a burger on his own, then shook his head. He needed to talk to Frank.

_Maybe I can convince Frank to to with me._ _It'll give us a chance to talk over strategy for Tom's case._

His hands bracing his back, he walked over to his brother's office and pushed the door open with an elbow.

"Hey 'bro, do you want….?"

Frank was nowhere in sight. Instead, there was a woman leaning over his desk, writing something on a scrap of paper.

She was tall, slender with long limbs, and shoulder-length blonde hair similar in color to his own. She turned to him, emerald green eyes widening slightly as she noticed him. Her clothes were fashionably fitted, showing off a lithe and toned figure. The four-inch heels she wore made her legs seem even longer than they actually were.

He cleared his throat, trying to remember to breathe, and the woman smiled at him expectantly. Perfect make-up, a white gold choker covered in diamonds sparkling around her neck, and… Anna's facial features.

"Anna," he said, pleased with himself that he managed to say her name without stuttering. "How are you?" Occasionally, he managed to forget just how gorgeous Frank's girlfriend was. The fact that she usually wore jeans and sweatshirts when they socialized helped, but in this outfit, she was truly stunning.

She smiled at him as she leaned back onto the desk, slipping one of the high-heeled shoes onto her toes and reaching down to rub her instep with her other hand. Joe's eyes immediately moved to a spot a few inches over her left shoulder.

_Frank's girlfriend, mine and Kara's friend, _he thought. _Don't leer. It's rude._

The shoe dropped to the floor with a light thud. "Hey, Joe. Do you know where Frank is? We're shooting a couple of blocks over, and I had a break so I thought I'd surprise him."

"Uh…" The green eyes were disconcerting. "No. I haven't… You're wearing contacts, right?"

"Yes. It's a little weird. I keep catching glances of myself in windows and have to keep myself from stopping and staring." She used her stocking-clad foot to slide the other shoe off and sighed. "Oh, that's so much better. I don't know why costume designers insist that women wear these things all the time."

Joe shrugged. "Kara just wears flats."

"So do I most of the time. Kara's lucky she can do it at work." Anna picked up the shoes, then brushed a few straight blonde strands from her shoulders. "Oh well. I should be getting back. I was leaving Frank a note."

"I'll tell him you were here," he said. He took a breath, raising his left index finger as he did so. "Can I ask a dumb question?" He interpreted her head tilt to mean yes and continued. "Is that a wig?"

She nodded. "I don't like dyeing my hair. It damages it too much."

"So… How do you fit all your hair under that?"

Anna's natural hair was long, down to the middle of her back, wavy, and raven black. The contrast with her pale skin and dark eyes was striking. The change of hair and eye color made her look like an ice princess, glittering and cold, despite the lightness of the colors she wore.

"I don't."

This time Joe's head tilted to the side. "Not sure I get that."

Anna looked down, then slid a phone from the very expensive looking purse she had slung over her shoulder. She tapped on the screen a few times, then handed the phone to him.

Onscreen were two pictures, side by side. The first showed Anna as she normally looked – long hair around her face and wearing a slightly over-sized sweater. The second had her in the same clothes, but her hair was now cut in a short pixie style.

Joe looked up at her, his eyes wide. "You did this intentionally?"

A faint blush covered Anna's perfectly made-up cheeks. "The character I'm playing is blonde. It was that or dye my hair." She looked down. "I don't love it, but it's hair. It'll grow back. It could have been worse. Some roles require you to shave your head." She shuddered delicately. "At least I got to donate it. I sent it all off to a charity that makes wigs for kids who need them."

"Those are some lucky kids," Joe said, a smile touching his lips. "You are a really nice person, you know that? I'm not sure that pragmatic, no nonsense brother of mine deserves you."

She blushed harder.

Joe held his hands up. "I'll stop now." He flashed a grin at her. "So, does Frank like it?"

"He says he likes me regardless of how I look." She looked at the floor., her cheeks still flaming. "He does says he likes seeing my face instead of a curtain of hair, but he would prefer _I_ like how I look."

The grin stretched wider, covering his face. "Very feminist, my brother."

She looked at him for a moment, then arched an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Frank. "And I like him that way." Then she let out a breath and bent down to straighten the shoes. As she slid her feet back in them, she said, "If you could tell him I was here, and I'll try to see him for dinner, I'd really appreciate it." She straightened and winced, the pained expression at odds with her makeup and clothes. "I hate these things. I can't wait to get back into my sneakers." Then, she sighed. "Which will be a much longer wait if I don't leave now. Have a good afternoon, Joe."

He waited until he heard the outer office door shut before turning around.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Frank crushed the note in his hand with a growl, then dropped it on the desk. Anna had stopped by, and he had missed her.

_Yet another reason to consider that errand a waste of time_, he thought, letting out a sigh. He reached out for the note and smoothed the crumpled piece of paper, before carefully folding it and putting it in his pocket.

"Everything okay, Frank?" Chet's voice came from the doorway. "I heard animal noises." He walked in the room, a slight grin on his face and a file folder in his hand. "Afternoon not going according to plan?"

"No." Frank leaned against the edge of the desk, his shoulders drooping. "I promised Joe we'd find a way to investigate Hargreaves without my going in as a patient.

Chet's eyes widened. "Hargreaves Manor? Isn't that one of those shi shi rehab hospitals for rich people?" His head tilted to one side. "I mean, I can see why Joe is uncomfortable with you doing that. I don't imagine he has the best memories of you in hospitals."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "You know, I can say the same thing about him in hospitals."

"You're up at least one really serious hospital stay on him." Chet snorted and shook his head. "Just try to remember it's not a contest, okay?"

"I think I can manage that," Frank said. "Regardless of how it appears, being hospitalized is not my favorite way to spend time. Which is why I was out this afternoon." He let out a breath. "I was checking with some of the local employment bureaus to see if Hargreaves was hiring."

"No job openings at the moment?" Chet asked, sliding the folder under his arm.

"Worse," Frank said, closing his eyes and rubbing at them. "They only hire through word of mouth."

Chet whistled. "The pay is that good?"

Frank's eyes opened. "How did you get to that conclusion?"

His friend shrugged. "They don't need a cattle call to fill positions. If they only hire through word of mouth, they must trust their workers not to tell tales on the patients, and money is usually a good way to keep people from tattling to the paparazzi about who is in residence."

"I… I actually hadn't thought of that." Frank tilted his head to one side. "How often do you have these insights and keep them to yourself?"

Chet's cheeks turned pale red with the implied praise. "Not often. You usually out think me by a mile. My brain can't keep up with yours."

Frank waved the comment away. "No. You look at things differently than Joe and I do. It's a valuable skill." He turned an appraising gaze at his friend. "I may have to talk to Joe about changing your role here. You're too valuable to file and answer phones all day long."

"But that's what an office manager does, Frank."

"An office manager, yes. A partner, no."

Chet gulped.

"Let me talk to Joe, although I don't think he'll have an issue with it," Frank said, then he let out a breath. "I'm going to grab some coffee then head home." He pulled the note from his pocket. "Anna says she might be able to meet me for dinner, so I want to make something nice. She's been working hard and would probably like a quiet night." He put the note back on the desk. "Think about what I said."

Chet nodded.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe was a little over a mile into his morning run when he heard the footsteps behind him. It was early, and he was running on a street where he rarely encountered anyone else at this time of day. At first, the other runner's footfalls beat a syncopated rhythm on the city sidewalks, but before long, he could hear them synchronize with his own.

He picked up his pace, listening intently to see what his follower did. After a few seconds, he could the other footsteps again matched his.

His lips clamped into a hard line as his mind ran through the office's recent cases trying to figure out who might be following him.

_Nothing_, he thought. All of their current crop of clients had been happy with their services, and there hadn't been any cheating spouse cases for a while. He decided to see what would happen if he slowed down when he turned the next corner and would be out of sight for a few seconds.

Within seconds the other runner came into sight. Joe shook his head, his breath coming in deep gasps.

Hands on his thighs, he shook his head. "You know, Frank… We're going to be in the… office soon. You… could have waited… an hour… And when did you… start running again?"

Frank was also breathing hard. He held up a hand as he filled his lungs and slowly let the air back out. "I run." His voice held an injured tone.

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Not usually to my neighborhood." His breathing had evened back out and was close to normal. "If it was that urgent, you could have called."

This time Frank's eyebrow went up. "I did," he said. "Your phone is on your sofa. Kara answered. She told me where you would be."

"Oh." Joe felt his cheeks flush. It wasn't often he forgot his phone when he ran. It figured it would happen when his brother needed him. "So, what's up? It's not an emergency, or you wouldn't be on foot. Is something up with Mom and Dad?"

"Everything's fine." Frank wiped a hand across his forehead and let out a breath. "I was thinking we might want to offer Chet a partnership."

"I'd be all for it," Joe said. "Let's head back to my apartment. Kara can get you some coffee. So, what brought this on?"

"Kara? Isn't that kind of sexist of you?"

Joe smirked. "If you want coffee I made, I'm good with that. I thought you might like something that tasted like coffee, rather than brown crayons strained through water."

Frank blanched. "No. I think I would prefer Kara's, thank you." He shuddered once then relayed the gist of the previous day's conversation with Chet. "I think we're wasting his talents. Not that he's not a great office manager, but I think he's got more to offer."

"If it's what he wants, then I'm on board," Joe said as they approached his building. "But you'll have to be the one to talk to him. I've got another art gallery this morning."

"Have fun."

Joe made a face. "Keep saying that, and I _will_ be the one making you coffee."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Chet was waiting in Frank's office when he got in, a tabloid magazine in his hands.

Frank lowered the coffee cup from his mouth without getting a taste. Kara had already left for work when he and Joe had returned, so rather than subject himself to his brother's concept of coffee, he had gotten some at one of the cafes on the way to the office.

"Chet, what are you…?"

"Marisol's cousin Felix works on the grounds at Hargreaves Manor." The words tumbled out of his mouth. "That word of mouth thing? They're looking for an office assistant. They just fired one for talking to a magazine about one of their more recent clients." He shoved the paper into Frank's hands.

"That would give us the in we need. And Joe would be much happier if I went in as an office worker." He stopped when he saw Chet's head shake. "You just said…"

"Felix will only recommend someone he knows." There was a glint in Chet's brown eyes. "He doesn't know you."

Frank took a breath. "But?"

Chet looked him straight in the eyes. "But he knows me."


	5. Chapter 4

Thanks to Candylou, Anjelicious, Paulina Ann, MargaretA66, max2013, BMSH, snickers93, Jilsen, Magriethaj, Xenitha, sm2003495, julzdagger88, DcoppP, RevelineS, and all those who read and enjoyed but didn't review.

This chapter was a bear. I was all set to post it about 3 weeks ago when I realized most of what I had written really should be chapter 5 and that this one was missing some vital events. In any case, here it is in all its slightly shorter than I intended glory. The good news is that chapter 5 is now already half written!

**Chapter 4**

"No!" The word exploded from Joe's chest, his arms thrusting out in front of him as if to give it more meaning before crossing them tightly in front of his chest. "It's too dangerous."

Chet cocked his head to one side. "How is my getting a job filing in an office dangerous? It's what I do here. In addition to some other things, but still..."

"If Tom thinks his sister was murdered, what do you think they would do to someone found rifling through their files?" Joe shook his head, finding it hard to believe his friend could be so careless of his own safety.

"Fire them. Just like they did with the woman who spoke to the journalist." Chet's voice was calm. "They would have no way to know I was connected with your friend in any way. I would just be another nosy employee who needs to be let go."

Joe turned to his brother. "Frank, talk some sense into him!" He could feel the veins in his forehead starting to pulse, took in a long breath, and held it for a few seconds before letting it out in what he knew would be a futile attempt to try calming down.

"Him, or you?" Frank raised an eyebrow, the rest of his face devoid of any expression, before taking a long pull from his coffee mug.

"Him." The word came through nearly clenched teeth.

"I don't understand what the problem is," Chet said, his voice calm and reasonable, his arms open with palms up. "You don't want Frank to have to go in as a patient, so this is perfect. I already _run_ an office. I don't even need to pretend to be someone I'm not. All I have to be is myself. Hargreaves isn't too far from Bayport, so it's not unreasonable I would be looking for a job near where I grew up. Sure, it's a bit of a drive, but the traffic here is infinitely worse. I can stay at the farm unless they offer me housing." He gave Joe a half-smile. "I'm sure my dad would love to have me back for a bit. Free labor, and all that."

"I don't think…" Joe started. He made a conscious effort to uncross his arms and flatten them down by his sides.

"Unless you don't trust that I can do it." Chet's expression was still, but there was an underlying hint of sadness in his tone.

"No! That's not…" Joe spluttered, his arms flying up unbidden to point at the ceiling. "Of course, I trust you, it's just…" He clamped his mouth shut, needing a second before he blurted out exactly what he was thinking. The tendons in his jaw flexed as he attempted not to grind his teeth – also a futile endeavor – while he tried to find the right words to say what he needed. His arms went automatically back across his chest, folded into a tight knot.

"If Chet is going to come in as a partner, this is part of the job," Frank said, his voice quiet and reasonable. "We all need to be able to do all parts of the work, even if his needing to do something like this is an infrequent occurrence. Otherwise, it's not a partnership."

"I don't want to see you get hurt." Joe's hands coiled into fists against his sides. "Things can happen. Unexpected things." He willed his friend to understand what he wasn't saying.

"Understood," Chet said.

Joe shook his head. "No, you don't..."

Chet held up a hand. "Hear me out, Joe. I don't particularly want to get hurt. I have both been there and done that with some of your cases in the past." A half-smile crossed his lips as he remembered times past before settling down to a more serious expression. "I would, however, like the chance to prove myself."

Joe looked at the resolve in Chet's face, then slid his gaze to his brother. Frank was looking at him, his expression still neutral, his eyes unreadable. He turned his own eyes back to their friend, released his arms to his sides again, and let out a long, slow breath.

"You've proven yourself more times over than I can count," he said, his voice low. He took a few more breaths, and looked away. "I don't want to see you get hurt," he repeated. "If you feel unsafe at any point, you leave. Is that clear?"

Chet nodded. "Of course. Felix pretty much said the same thing."

"Felix? What is he worried about?" Frank asked, the coffee mug hovering halfway between the top of his desk and his lips.

"It was along the lines of making sure I stay in one piece so Marisol doesn't kill him," Chet said, the smile popping back on his face. "She can be pretty fierce if she thinks I'm being threatened. He's worried about what she might do to him if anything happens to me."

This time Frank nodded, his expression more animated. "He's a wise man. I sure wouldn't want to get on Marisol's bad side."

Joe rolled his eyes, his fingers of his left hand drumming on his thigh. They were joking about this. They weren't listening to him, and they weren't going to.

"If you two don't mind, I'm going to go back to my office and get some work done." He stomped out, his blue eyes stormy, his back stiff with tension.

Silence blanketed the room after he left. They looked at one another then at the door. Chet was the first to speak.

"Does he not think I can do this?" Small frown lines stood out on his forehead. "Because regardless of what he said, that's the impression I'm getting here."

Frank shook his head. "You know Joe. He doesn't like surprises, and this was a pretty big surprise." He frowned, jumping slightly when the phone rang out at the reception area. He nodded toward the noise. "You grab that. I'll go talk to him."

He went to Joe's office, opened the door without knocking, and found his brother standing at the window, his back toward the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his arms still crossed tightly over his chest.

"So, what was that?" Frank tried to keep his voice level. "Other than making one of our best friends feel like you don't trust him."

Joe didn't turn around.

"Talk to me." He walked inside, closing the door behind him with a solid thud. "Tell me what's going on in your head, little brother," Frank said. He lowered his voice, a flash of pain darting across his face. "Is it Iola?"

For the first time that morning, Joe stilled. Head bowed, he whispered something Frank couldn't make out but could easily guess.

"It wasn't your fault, Joe."

Joe spun around, his eyes shooting sparks. "Like hell it wasn't. She died, and it was _my _fault. No one else's. _Mine._"

Frank shook his head. "I'm not going to argue with you about this, but you couldn't have stopped what happened. If you have to find fault, find it with both of us. We can share the burden." He sighed. "But you're taking your guilt out on Chet. You can't do that."

"No, what I _can't_ do is let another member of the Morton family get hurt when I can do something about it!" With each word, Joe took a step closer to his desk, slamming his hands down on the top when he finished, his face flushed, his breath coming hard.

"It's not your choice, Joe." Frank's voice was soft, but the words had steel infused in them. "It's his, and you don't get to take that away from him." He looked at his brother with compassion. "Iola didn't have a choice. Chet does, and he wants to do this. You're not protecting him by treating him like a child. You're hurting him."

Joe flinched, the words an icicle through his heart.

"I know this is hard for you." Frank sighed again. "It's not the easiest thing for me either, but Chet wants to do this. He came up with the plan himself, and I have to admit, it makes sense. If he's in the office…

"I know." Joe's shoulders sagged. "You don't have to explain it to me. I get it. I don't like it, but… I get it."

Frank nodded, his eyes still soft. "Why don't you take the afternoon off. Go see if Kara wants to have lunch. We're not that busy today. I can cover your appointments."

"Yeah. I'll do that. Thanks." Joe ran a hand across his face. "At least it'll probably be a few weeks before Felix can get anything set up, right?"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

As it turned out, things moved faster than anyone could have anticipated.

Felix called that afternoon to let Chet know he could set up an interview the next day if he was still interested. Chet thanked him, then went to tell his friends he would need to leave that afternoon.

"Surprise," he said. "Best laid plans and all that."

Frank nodded, wished him luck, and handed him an envelope. "Letter of recommendation. It should get their attention," he said. "Good luck. Keep us informed."

Chet nodded. "Of course, you would have one of these ready."

"I prefer to be prepared rather than caught off-guard." Frank stretched his arms out behind him, squeezing his shoulder blades together until there was a faint cracking sound. "That's better." He smiled up at his friend. "I have every confidence in you. And every confidence I am going to have a much easier time finding things after _you've _filed them than after some of our other office managers." He stood and nodded a farewell. "Call me when you get to Bayport. I want to know you got there safely."

From there Chet went into Joe's office. On the desk he found a crumpled piece of paper, his own name visible across the wrinkles. Opening it, he could almost hear Joe's voice in the words.

_I know you'll be fine. Better than fine. __Be sure to keep us in the loop. __Sorry for all that. Before. I just…_ the next few words were obliterated by scribbles. _You know._

"I know." Chet murmured. "You don't want me to get hurt" He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "Like she did." He swallowed again, then found a pen and wrote in more words on the bottom of the page. "I get it. It's okay. We're good."

He folded the note, placed in on Joe's chair and turned to the door, standing for a long moment with his hand on the doorknob. Then he opened the door, straightened his shoulders, and walked out of the office.


	6. Chapter 5

Thanks to Paulina Ann, MargaretA66, BMSH, max2013, hlahabibty, Jilsen, Xenitha, caseykam, julzdagger88, and all those who read and enjoyed. Happy early Thanksgiving to those who live in the States. The story is heading in directions I wasn't expecting, and with the holidays approaching, the next chapter may take a bit, but I will get started on it in a few days.

Enjoy!

**Chapter 5**

The interview itself had been fairly straight-forward, just like for any other office job.

The administrative staff at Hargreaves was smaller than Chet had expected for a facility of its size. Helen Schmidt, an elegant blond woman, wearing a pale blue suit and speaking with a slight German accent was the assistant to Carl Peters, the hospital's administrator. She appeared to be in her early forties. The office manager was also a woman. Megan Barrett, a softly rounded brunette a few inches shorter than he was, seemed to be about his age and looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on why this was.

When he inquired as to the job duties, he found they mainly needed someone to assist with billing and general office tasks. Basic office assistant stuff. No problem. He gave them a brilliant smile.

"That's exactly what I did in my last position," he said. "I'm sure I can be of help to you."

As they sat around the table in the well-appointed conference room, Megan asked Chet why he was looking to work at Hargreaves.

He took a breath, remembering what Frank had told him before he had left the day before. "Well, Ms. Barrett…"

"Megan," she said, a dimpled smile flashing at him. "We're not that formal here." She threw a tentative glance at the older woman. "At least I'm not. It's a small office."

"Megan," he said. "I've had enough of the city. I want to go back home. Live where things move slower." He made his expression turn more serious. "And my folks are getting older. They could use some help. I want to make sure they're okay."

"Morton… Bayport, right? Your family owns the farm on the outskirts of town?" At Chet's feigned look of surprise, she laughed. "Jerry Gilory is my cousin. Our mothers are sisters."

Chet looked at her more closely. _Her eyes. She and Jerry have the same eyes. __T__hat's why she looks familiar_, he thought.

He smiled. "I haven't seen Jerry since high school," he said. "I hope he's well."

Ms. Schmidt cleared her throat. "You come with excellent references, Mr. Morton." She scanned the letter Frank had handed him on his way out the door. "Mr. Hardy speaks glowingly of you."

"I did my best for them," he said, "and they were very good to me. They were sorry to see me go."

Megan's head tilted to one side. "Hardy? You worked for the Hardy boys? I remember Jerry saying you were friends with them. Is that how you got the job at their agency?"

Given the proximity of Hargreaves to his hometown, Chet had known his association with the brothers was likely to come up and had prepared an answer.

"We were friends in high school but lost touch afterward," he said, with a shrug. "They recognized my name when I applied for the job. For some reason, Chet isn't that common a name nowadays." He gave the women a rueful glance. "It was a good job, but I guess I'm more of a country boy at heart." He did his best to maneuver the conversation away from the brothers. "I wanted to come home. I miss living where there is space."

"I think you will fit in well at Hargreaves, Mr. Morton," Ms. Schmidt said. "You understand we need to be careful of who we hire."

It could have been his imagination, but he thought he saw Megan bristle slightly at this comment.

Ms. Schmidt continued. "If you want the job, we would be pleased to have you join us. It is a relief to be able to hire someone so quickly. Our last person left.." A storm cloud settled over her face. "… Rather precipitously."

This time Megan noticeably stiffened.

The older woman gathered his resume and letter of recommendation together and tapped them on the table against a manila folder to straighten them. "We can begin the paperwork now if you would like. When would you be able to start?"

Chet pretended to think. "I would be thrilled to accept your offer." He smiled. "I can start the day after tomorrow if that works for you."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Dinner that night with his parents had been both familiar and uncomfortable.

Familiar because he was home. The smells and sounds of the house. His mother's cooking. The bedroom which was just as he had left it when he moved to the city a few years back to work with Frank and Joe.

Uncomfortable because he couldn't tell his parents exactly _why_ he had come back home.

He loved them dearly, but he knew his mother wouldn't be happy about the assignment and would feel the need to talk about it with her friends, and he couldn't risk that happening.

"So, you're staying for a while?" His mother's face wore a very hopeful expression which tugged at his heart and raised more than a few guilty feelings in his gut. She had cooked several of his favorite recipes for dinner and even a chocolate cake for dessert. "We've missed you so much, dear."

His father picked up a forkful of pot roast and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes narrowed as he slowly chewed and swallowed, looking at the expression on his son's face. "Did you and Fenton's boys have a falling out?"

Chet shook his head and turned away from his father's gaze, waving a hand to stop his mother from adding more food to his plate. "Mom, stop. I won't fit in my clothes if eat that much. And I have to start my new job tomorrow. I need my pants not to be too tight." He softened the words with a smile.

Augusta Morton smiled fondly at him, put the platter down, and sat at her place. "I'm sorry, dear. I'm just that glad you're back." She started eating her own dinner.

"Son?" Albert Morton's tone was sharp.

"Sorry, Pop." Chet pushed his food around the plate, his appetite waning despite the wonderful aromas and the fact he had missed lunch due to all the driving. This part of the assignment was going to be more difficult than he had anticpated. "No. Everything is fine with us. I just needed a break." He took a bite and chewed. "Marisol's cousin heard about the job…"

"That's right!" Augusta slapped a hand down on the table. "I almost forgot. I ran into Marjorie Webling at the supermarket today. Her niece, Alice, is moving to town to work at the paper." She looked expectantly at Chet. "I told her you could show Alice around on Sunday afternoon."

Chet sighed. "I'm pretty sure Liz is going to want to do that. She and Alice were always close. I don't need to be a third wheel on their girl time." He put his fork down and laid both hands palm down on the table. "And I'm driving back to the city on Saturday afternoon to stay overnight. Marisol and I have plans on Sunday."

"But…" She cleared her throat. "She's a lovely girl, Chet, but… If you're living here…" Her gaze turned to the window behind Chet's head. "I just thought you two… Maybe… Wouldn't be seeing each other any more?"

_Here we go_, he thought, doing his best not to sigh or roll his eyes.

"Mom, I don't know if my being home is going to be a permanent thing or not, but as far as I am concerned, Marisol is." He paused. "Permanent, I mean. I love her, and I am going to be spending as much time with her as my job permits." He watched his mother huff out an angry breath and took the napkin off his lap. "You know," he said as he stood and pushed back his chair, "I'm really not that hungry." He dropped the napkin on the table next to his plate. "I think I'll take a walk."

His father found him leaning on the fence around the cow pasture watching the sun set into the rolling hills.

"You got farther than I thought you would given how long you've been gone."

Chet gave him a sidelong glance, trying to gauge his father's mood. "I move faster than I used to." He patted his stomach. "There's less of me to move."

"I forget that sometimes." The older man moved to the fence and took up position next to his son. "Along with a few other things." He cleared his throat. "Your mother forgets you've grown up. She means well, son. She's just… old-fashioned."

Chet snorted. "Call it what it is, Pop. I love Mom, but she's prejudiced. She doesn't like Marisol because she's not white. Or Protestant. Or like us."

Albert let out a sigh. "The world's a different place than it used to be, son. Used to be you paired up with someone local because you never left your hometown. Your mother hoped one of you would stay home, take over the farm, give her a pack of grandchildren." He looked out over the horizon. "And that certainly wasn't going to be your sister."

"No." Chet couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped from his mouth. "Iola certainly was not going to spend her life on the farm." His expression grew more serious. "And it's not what I want, either, Pop."

"I know that, son." Albert reached out, awkwardly patting his son's arm for a moment before taking a small step farther away. "But your mother hopes." He kept his eyes looking to the distance. "Is it a case?"

Chet stiffened.

"Guess that's my answer." He sucked at his teeth. "I won't tell your mother. She'll worry. No need for that. And you don't need to tell me details." He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, obviously deciding something. "But, if you're looking for information on that fancy hospital, you might just want to talk to Liz Webling." He looked sideways at his son. "Just be sure to do when that cousin of hers isn't around, or you'll never hear the end of it."

"I… Thanks, Pop." Chet swallowed. "I'll do that."

Albert turned back in the direction he had come from, walked a few steps, then stopped. "You looking to make this thing with Marisol permanent?" He didn't turn around.

Chet untangled himself from the fence and turned toward his father. "Possibly. She's smart, ambitious, pretty…"

"Can she cook?"

"Yes, Pop. She can cook."

"Hmmm." Albert started walking again. "I'll work on your mother," he said. "Now, come on. There's cake."

Chet laughed and moved to catch up to his father.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He spent the first day at Hargreaves completing all of the standard paperwork, plus a fairly involved non-disclosure agreement, then meeting the staff and learning the layout of the hospital and its grounds.

One thing he found noticed right off was that even though there weren't many employees at Hargreaves, the various staffs didn't mix socially. The groundskeepers – there were five others in addition to Felix, who was the head gardener – would occasionally interact with the handful of security guards on day shift, although they never saw the three who worked nights. The doctors and nurses also kept mostly to themselves, even within their shifts.

He found it odd.

On his second day, he took a walk around the grounds, knocking on the door to the security office as he went by.

He was greeted by a man easily as tall as Joe but with a darker complexion and a build like a refrigerator. His expression was flat, not quite unfriendly, but definitely not open, and he held a baton in his raised right hand.

"Can I help you?" The disinterested tone didn't match the offer.

Chet stepped back, his hands held up in front of him. "Steve, right? I come in peace."

The man's face cleared. "Oh, you're the new office guy." He lowered the baton. "Sorry. You can't be too careful. The number of paparazzi who knock on the door thinking we won't know what they are… You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

Chet whistled. "I get it. We have to keep the patients safe, right?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. Good to know _someone_ gets it."

That was an interesting comment. "It's what they pay us for. So… Not that I'm being nosy, but how many of there are you?"

The bigger man's expression darkened. "Why?"

"My mother started baking as soon as I said I was moving home," Chet said, "and I'm trying to make sure I'll still be able to fit in my clothes by the end of the year. So I was wondering if you guys like chocolate chip cookies. And brownies. Oh, and chocolate cake. We've got more than half of one of those at home right now."

Steve opened the door wider. "I think I like this one," he said, smiling at the couple of guards sitting around a table with their lunches out before turning back to extend the smile to Chet. "Any extraneous cookies can find there way here with no problem." He gestured with his thumb to the door behind him. "Knock twice, pause, then twice again. It's how we know it's staff."

"Sounds good," Chet said. He knew from experience that regular infusions of goodies tended to make people more talkative.

Later that afternoon, he tried extending the same offer to the nurses at the main desk and almost had the door slammed in his face.

"No thank you." The words were polite, but the tone was frosty. "We would prefer not to be the recipient of gifts."

The implication was clear: _I think you are bartering for information on the patients, and it's not going to happen._

He shrugged and made a mental note to start baking when he got home from work. Most of the baked good would go to the groundskeepers and security, but he would bring some to the medical staff anyway, figuring if goodies arrived regularly without any expectations, maybe some attitudes would thaw.

That said, baked goods also were not going to ingratiate him into the heart of Ms. Schmidt. The small-portioned, ultra-healthy lunches she ate at her desk made that very clear. Megan he thought might be susceptible to the occasional treat, but it might take some time. Once the interview was over, she had gone from being friendly to being civil, but distant. He decided he had a little while to figure out what had happened before he would get too worried.

The way to get in Ms. Schmidt's good graces, however, soon became clear. The ability to fix the various pieces of office equipment that seemed to break constantly in her presence reinforced her belief she had made the correct choice in hiring him. His first day, he figured out why her documents weren't reaching the printer, playing around with the default settings on the software. On his second day, the photocopier jammed, and he took it apart to make it work again. This lightened her usual frosty manner a touch.

"I can see hiring you was a very good idea, Mr. Morton," Ms. Schmidt said, her usual blank expression showing a hint of approval. "I think you will do well here." Her gaze drifted to Megan with what Chet thought was an expression of faint disapproval.

Megan flushed and pretended to ignore the older woman.

_Interesting_, he thought. _I wonder what brought that on?_

When she had gone back to her office, he turned to Megan and whistled. "Is it my imagination, or does it warm up in here when she leaves?"

Megan nodded, keeping her eyes on her computer monitor.

Chet tried again. "I meant to ask, what has Jerry been up to since high school?" He cleared his throat. "He left to go to college, and we lost touch."

"He lives in Minnesota," Megan said, her eyes flickering up from her task. "His dad moved there after he and my aunt got divorced. Jerry went to college there and got a job with some manufacturing firm after he graduated. I think he does accounting." She looked up and shrugged. "I don't really talk to him that much. We were close when we were kids, but… Well, you know. Divorce."

"Yeah. We all have people we lose track of. It's kind of a shame." He cocked his head to one side. "Hey, would you like to go for coffee when we get off work tonight?"

She finally turned to look at him. "Like a date?"

Chet twisted his lips and thought for a moment before making a decision. Things at home were still a little tense, and he didn't want any rumors making their way to his mother's ears.

"No, as a friend," he said, "and I hope this doesn't impact my ability to continue working with you. The truth is I have a girlfriend who would probably kill me if I went out on a date with someone else."

For the first time in two days, Megan gave him a genuine smile. "That's good. Because _my _girlfriend..." Her face fell. "I mean, my ex-girlfriend…" She covered her face with her hands. "I need to stop talking now."

Chet licked his lips. "I'm sorry. Maybe having a friend to talk about it with will help?"

She looked up at him with a wan smile. "You're the first person who's offered that. Coffee after work would be good. Thank you."

The sound of a ringing phone split the air, breaking any leftover tension.

"Right. No rest for the weary office worker," she said, picking up the handset. "This is Megan…"

Chet let out a breath. Maybe now he was getting somewhere.

_Good._

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

They picked a cafe in the next town over, put in their orders at the counter, and chose an out-of-the-way booth to sit at.

Megan toyed with her mug, looking down at the table.

Chet looked at her for a long minute. "So, I'm guessing I have your ex's job?"

"How did you…?" Coffee sloshed over the edge of the mug, dripping on to the table.

"I didn't until just now. But I did work for detectives for a few years. You pick up a couple of things." He grinned. "Wow, some of Ms. Schmidt's comments make a lot more sense now."

Megan pulled napkins from the dispenser and mopped up the coffee on the table, her eyes cast down. "Yeah. Helen does like rubbing it in." She sighed. "I met her just after the job opened up. We were having a hard time filling it. For some reason, not everyone wants to live out here." She shrugged and pushed the soggy napkins to the side of the table. "One day, she called and said she had been laid off. Wanted to know if I knew of any open positions anywhere. Of course, I recommended her. I was afraid it would be weird, with me being her supervisor and all, but it wasn't. Everything seemed… good." She looked up, her hazel eyes cloudy. "After a few weeks, I started noticing files in the wrong place. Or missing. Then stories started appearing in the gossip rags. We couldn't figure out where they were getting their information." She let out a breath. "One night security changed the locks on the file room, and she got caught trying to break in the next day. She was fired on the spot. And, big surprise, broke up with me while she was being escorted off the grounds."

Chet whistled. "I'm sorry. That really sucks."

She gave him a watery nod. "I felt pretty stupid, and I almost lost my job, too. She at least had the scruples to tell Peters I wasn't involved." A snort escaped her. "Helen told me her actual words were, 'I was only dating her to get a foot in the door here. She had no clue what I was doing.'"

"Ouch." He took a sip of his coffee. "Not good for the ego."

He felt a slight twinge of guilt. Wasn't what he was doing exactly the same? No. He wasn't planning on invading anyone's privacy for profit. He was trying to right a wrong. Wasn't he?

"Anyway," she said, "that's the story." She took a sip of her drink. "What about you? I know what you said in the interview, but what brought you back home?"

Chet blinked. "I needed a change," he finally said. "I like the city. I'll probably go back at some point. My girlfriend's a cosmetologist – a successful hair stylist. She's got her own business, so I can't see her moving here, but…" He broke off. "I missed it here. There's something the area – about Bayport – that never really leaves you. You know?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I get it. I went to college in the city. It wasn't my thing. Too noisy." She looked down at her wristwatch. "And speaking of noisy… If I don't get home to walk the dog soon, they'll hear him complaining at the neighbor's house." She gave him a shy smile. "Thanks for this. It was good to talk about her. Get it out in the open. Sorry if I've been a bitch at work."

He smiled back at her. "You haven't, but even if you were, you had good reasons." He stood. "Don't worry about this," he said, waving at the table. "I'll get it. You go walk your dog. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," she said. "See you tomorrow."

He watched her leave, then bused the table, lost in thought, his eyes troubled.

_I need to talk to the guys,_ he thought. _ I may be in over my head here..._


End file.
